Red Carpet Blues
by barefoot11
Summary: Gilbert's separate lives begin to blend; but who survives? Human names used, AU, Prussia/Canada and warning for slight mental illness.


Antonio Fernandez Carriedo has a heart. It stumbles like an earthquake trapped in his chest.

Sirens that came too close burn in the back of his eyes, liquid fear trickles throughout his limbs. He has nighttime as a cover, he has two friends at his back, he has the bags of money—there is absolutely no reason for him to shoot.

And yet…

It's—the man just wouldn't stop _talking_, wouldn't stop _staring_ at him, like he knew, like he really _knew_—

He can say his finger slipped. He cannot say that he experienced a moment of complete apathy, a semi-_second_ of callousness toward another human being, a sensation anyone will swear is _so unlike him_; a sensation that sends them running, that extinguishes them like flies in the dark.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo has a heart. And he's just a little afraid of it.

—

They sleep, and when they wake up, there aren't any words. Antonio opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. They stare at him and he stares back, and he wonders if they're seeing this whole new person, if they're looking in on that hidden side of him: Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the newly reformed; Antonio, the cold-blooded.

The news report says the shot wasn't fatal.

* * *

It was infinitesimal and slow, but they end up living together. Not quite sharing groceries, not quite picking out furniture, but always close enough that the oxygen belongs to both of them. And how much closer can people get?

Matthew has it listed under the small joys of his life; Gilbert, well, hasn't actually noticed yet.

(And Matthew isn't about to tell him.)

—

Gilbert always answers the phone. Gilbert always walks into another room, then, to talk. Even if it turns out to be for Matthew—Francis checking up on him; Alfred accidentally getting arrested—Gilbert will never talk into the phone while Matthew is present. At first, it was a simple, unspoken thing between them; but as Gilbert's calls become longer, as his voice becomes louder, Matthew finally thinks to question it.

"Who's always calling you?"

Gilbert looks at him, his eyelids narrowed, flickering over his face. "Where's this coming from?"

"I'm just curious," Matthew says in defense, not expecting such an aggressive response. "You're—you're always on the phone, is all, and I wanted to…" His voice gives away, burrowing back deep into his chest. He could've sworn he's stopped himself from getting so nervous, so haltingly insecure around Gilbert. He could've sworn.

"Did you hear something, Matthew?"

He starts to feel fear pounding in his brain, like a headache, infantile in the making. "No, I didn't, but why—"

"Matt." Gilbert smiles, and Matthew's world settles back onto its axis. He ignores how strained the grin is in favor of celebrating its presence. "I'm sorry. My friend's just going through a tough time right now, and I'm tryin' to help."

"Oh," he emits, taken by surprise. It doesn't explain the yelling—it definitely doesn't explain the yelling—but Gilbert doesn't know he's heard that. So he echoes the smile, lets Gilbert put a hand on his knee, and doesn't think about it.

(If Gilbert begins to mumble in his sleep—mumble dark things, things that tiptoe across the corridors, making Matthew force Gilbert awake—then Matthew's not thinking about that, either.)

* * *

Francis has his hands against his visage, water dripping from his hair. No matter how many times he washes his face, he can't wipe away this deep-rooted uncertainty of his. Every glance into his own eyes is torture; every glimpse sends a wave of nasty thoughts across his conscious. He can't believe he's doing this again.

He pulls a black ski mask over his face, and suddenly he's not so uncertain anymore.

* * *

"What did you tell your friend?"

"Huh?"

Matthew supposes asking such a question while Gilbert is distracted by the television isn't completely fair; but because of this distraction, Gilbert won't meet his eyes—a blessing—and will answer more honestly, as he isn't quite sure what he's saying.

At least, Matthew hopes he knows Gilbert well enough to assume…

"Your friend. What advice did you give them for their… problem?" he repeats, just to let Gilbert know the topic isn't completely forgotten. If it has anything to do with the nightmares Gilbert refutes, he wants it all out of the air and fast.

Gilbert shifts, no longer paying much attention to the movement of his tongue. "Oh." He takes a drink and replies with a refreshed mind: "I told him he's gotta stop denying who he is."

* * *

This bank is far away. Far away from their homes, their families—the bigger the distance they place between the heists and themselves, the less real it seems. Just a story on the news.

Antonio's hands are shaking. Francis chastises him. "Don't get too eager," he says quietly, tenderly. "You know what happened last time."

"About that," Antonio rushes in a blur; they hadn't spoken about it yet, not quite, and though the timing is inadequate, he can finally put words to the unsettling feeling he's been having and he can't just let that go. "Can't we do it again? Like a calling card?"

"Do what again? Antonio—what are you suggesting?" asks Francis in horror, becoming a little afraid of the complete darkness of Antonio's eyes. The poor lighting is no excuse.

Antonio shifts. He lets his mouth move, puts his heart and mind on the backburner; soon he won't have much of the former at all: "People will take us more seriously when they see us coming if they know we've shown no mercy before. We need to let them see we're not scared to spill a little blood—we'll never kill anyone, of course, of course. But if we continue to do this—if we continue to do this, we need to leave a warning, right? I mean, why else do we bring these guns?"

It hangs like illness.

"Because… because…" Francis stops himself short of gasping; but the breathlessness is still there. The night is quiet, waiting for them it seems, wanting to be interrupted by their sins and by their violence. Twilight gives them diamond stars to watch, but their luminescence is obscured by the light of the streetlamps. He begins to breathe again and says, "Because we're desperate."

"Exactly."

"Desperate, but not—" He is about to call it out for what it is: completely _psychopathy_, but the door to the van is opened and they're given the signal.

The night has begun.

—

Antonio's smile hesitates afterward. He sets the gun on the table, now bereft of two bullets. Francis stares at it, and wonders where he went wrong.

"Why him?" Francis asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over as if he can see to the very bottom of his soul. Maybe there are answers down there, in the dark.

Restless, irritated, Antonio hasn't stopped moving; he's walked across this maroon carpet countless times. The only reassurance his shuffling footsteps give is a constant rhythm to base their breathing off of. "He was—" Antonio fights for the word. He fails. "…couldn't you see?"

Francis doesn't answer. Francis doesn't think he can.

"He was just like the first guy," Antonio insists, pleading with Francis to fathom it, it… this _thing_ that keeps alluding him; "with the way he just wouldn't stop talking, wouldn't stop staring at us, like he knew, like he really knew—"

"He was nervous. Understandably."

"He was probably trying to memorize our features! Get us caught!" he screams. "You don't want that, do you? I'm just looking out for us!"

The dusty mirror behind them reflects their features, emits the dullest shadow of the two of them. Something's happened, Francis realizes. Something he could have never predicted.

"Toni," he says, softly on exhale, preventing their voices from turning into a crescendo of disagreements, floods of misunderstanding; "Toni, we… we started this because we needed the money, needed the thrill. But I think this is crossing the line. Are you…" He bites it down. Swallows it. And then he lets it go. "Are you alright?"

"Me?" The question startles him into stillness; without the scuffling of his shoes, neither one of them is sure if any time is passing. They remain, frozen.

Countless seconds; Antonio wrestles for a reply in the air, but all he sees is dirt and moonlight. "I'm—I'm—" He hasn't considered it. Is it him? Is he the anomaly? Is he the one breaking, and are his shattered pieces ripping up the fabric of them?

Francis releases everything in a breath, leaving him boneless and tired. He falls like an angel with clipped wings back against the mattress. "We're taking a break." He waits for a rebuttal; nothing comes. But Antonio is still stressed, Antonio is still shaking, so he offers: "Call Gilbert."

There, there: let the phone lines sever the emotional distance the way Francis never could.

* * *

The beckoning comes at twilight. Matthew is just falling asleep when the phone rings out, and it's never sounded so loud.

Gilbert leaves the bed and walks toward the door; Matthew's hand on his arm is soft, if a bit disconnected. Matthew thinks he's dreaming when he says, "Leave it."

A strangled expression crosses Gilbert's eyes, this Matthew sees lucidly: as if Gilbert's been lost, and then finds a glimpse of salvation on the horizon, only to have it violently ripped away. With this betrayal in mind, Gilbert pulls away from Matthew's touch, his arm feeling slightly hollow, and his silhouette dissolves in the doorway.

Whether this action begins a tragic dream or an endless nightmare is yet to be seen. Matthew, thinking it is all in his mind, goes back to sleep.

—

The first night Gilbert isn't thrashing about like an old tormented soul is considered pure luck by Matthew; the nightmares must have gotten tired of him and given him a night's rest. But then that one night stretches into weeks, and he thinks to himself: _There. We're finally there._

Everything's settled. No more mysterious phone calls, no more vacant looks, no more hostile exchanges. It pushes its way into their past, and they start to become the couple Matthew always knew they could be: quiet, happy, and loved.

Matthew answers his first call in months, trying to treat it like second nature. "Hello?"

"I—hello, Matthew?" The surprised hitch is ignored.

"Francis!" Matthew grins a wildly brilliant grin, one of those smiles that never really fade. "Francis, I've got to tell you," he rushes to say, realizing he hasn't talked to his friend since before everything had started to go so well. "Just a couple weeks ago—"

With nervous laughter, Francis interrupts, "Ah, I don't have much time at the moment, _mon ami_. Could you—would you mind—?" Francis stops. He sighs. Matthew can hear clear regret in his tone when he gets his words in order. "Is Gilbert there, Matthew?"

Matthew hesitates. _Yes_, he thinks, _Gilbert's just in the next room_._ Wouldn't be a bother to call for him_. But his deep—and unreasonable, he might add—inclination is toward lying. He wants to get angry, he wants to tell Francis: _no, Gilbert is not here, I do not want him on the phone ever again. Was it you who made him so afraid?_

But he licks his lips, bites his tongue, and watches Gilbert cross into the living room. He makes sure to meet Gilbert's eyes—oh watch how Gilbert tenses—then says, "Yes, he's right here." He adds, careful to not sound suspicious: "What is this about?"

"Who is it?" Gilbert asks. He sounds frightened, vaguely, fears recently suppressed bobbing back to the surface. Matthew pays him no mind.

Francis is silent for a moment, letting his background noise seep over the line toward Matthew: Francis sounds like he's cooking, the simmering of heat obvious, but there's something else behind it. Something more mortal than metal and food. Someone else must be there with him, someone that is making quite the fuss.

"What is this about?" Matthew repeats, quieter, when he thinks the whole world's gone silent.

Francis says, "Nothing, nothing." The noise around him diminishes. It is only the two of them, talking about lives like a game of chess. "Just… he'll know what this is about. No need to worry about it, Matthew. Listen, I'm so very busy; could you tell him I called?"

Matthew inhales deeply, the stress riding on bullets, getting into his brain. He feels cheated. Lied to. Francis must know something, something that could possess the key to Gilbert's previous distress. Why is he left out of the loop? Out of anyone, he is most entitled to know. Looking over at Gilbert, letting Gilbert's fiercely protective gaze settle in, he suddenly realizes it's been Gilbert, all along, keeping him safely at arm's distance.

He runs his hand over his mouth, then holds out the phone to Gilbert. Gilbert remains standing, uncertainly, in the middle of the floor. It's as if he knows he's been found out; but Matthew doesn't let on: so what do either of them really know?

"It's for you," Matthew informs him; it's amazing: Gilbert's actively keeping his temper in check, something he's rarely done before; Matthew can feel it in the air. "It's Francis," he struggles to continue, some irritating feeling bubbling up his throat. He can't name it. "Apparently he's got something to say, but it's about nothing."

Gilbert takes the phone quickly. Their fingers brush, and it gives them a distant facsimile of the old magic. It surprises Gilbert, so without thinking, without a single word, he presses a kiss to Matthew's forehead and leaves the room.

The sharp closing of the door feels like a relapse to Matthew.

—

"I'm going out," Matthew says, and then he remembers it's to an empty apartment. He adds bitterly, empowered by the thought, "Don't miss me!"

The wind outside is cold and bites at every insecurity he has. It absolutely gnaws at him, ravishing bone from muscle, muscle from skin. He can't stand it, he grasps finally, not any longer.

Gilbert has gotten worse again. After that phone call, of course. So his worst fear is confirmed: even though he doesn't know how, Francis is at the heart of the problem, and doesn't seem to be doing anything to fix it. And no one will tell him anything: not even Gilbert, after Matthew had built up all of his courage and pursued the issue until dusk. It had been the first argument they'd had over anything of real importance. That's probably why Gilbert had driven off, leaving him stranded in an apartment filled to the brim with emptiness.

Matthews wonders if it'll work between them in the end. He's always thought it would. They seem to have that necessary spark, the one that not all couples have. But maybe he's just been mistaken; maybe it's all just been a mistake. False hope has carried him this far; why not put a stop to it before he loses his mind?

He gives himself menial errands to run, something to distract him, and to get away from those walls. He walks, of course, since Gilbert has taken his car (again, without permission, and seemingly in the dead of night). It's alright; a mind-numbing walk and painless tasks like cashing checks will do him good.

His shoulders are pulled in close to him like a barrier, and he treads briskly, with a purpose, with all of his worries dragging in chains from his feet. Cocooned in his jacket, he feels detached from the harsh weather and even the simplest things around him like sight and sound. And yet he can feel the world's aftershock tearing through him like shrapnel; he, and he alone, experiences all of the collateral damage.

Step after step gets heavier, and he keeps walking on.

* * *

It's all a rush to him now, a blurry memory he can't quite recall. Somehow he's back in the vintage motions again: the adrenaline, the danger, the black cotton and the weapons. The feel is lead in his blood, burning on his skin. He tingles with it; it's now a part of him, after going so long without. They've gone back to old times, to that first time: the thrill of a daylight robbery.

The one they'd completed went through rather swimmingly, if they forget Antonio's slip of conscious (and they have it so blocked out of their minds that it didn't even happen). They're going to try again, feeding that addiction, and they swear it'll be the last time—

But aren't those famous last words?

Gilbert takes the lead, as he always does. He's their shadow king, the ruler who never gets his hands dirty. He gets there late, leaves early, but has the authority of royalty. He has Francis and Antonio at his back, twin princes, and they make a perfectly bad trio, if they do say so themselves; they also make a perfectly concise weapon against the public, as long as the public (as Antonio puts it) continues to get in their way.

Gilbert pushes through the door, and feels the first hint of dread. The doors are too familiar: he must have used this bank before, sometime long ago, before the domestic life had taken him in. If this is true, he realizes, this bank is significantly closer to their livelihoods then he's comfortable with. But he's already pulled out his gun, he's already told everyone to get down: there's no turning back from here.

With eyes that burn with dynamite, he stares down the bank clerk; watches as the woman squirms, watches as she trembles, as the humanity drains out of her. All of this with just a look; or maybe it's just the gun. The gun does in fact make a rather threatening beeline toward the middle of her forehead. It watches her now, creating a path to destiny that separates the two of them. Man and weapon, human and steel.

"Put the money in the bag," Gilbert growls, pushing the bag forward, pushing time to a halt.

The clocks seem to stop; everything is silent, because the front doors are again opening—and this, this has never happened before—and a person walks in. Three feet into the lobby, the man takes stock of what he's stepping into.

And against every synapse in his brain that tells him to leave, he hesitates a bit too long, and the clocks start to move again, sealing his fate. He is the first one to move: he, shaking, puts his hands into the air.

The trio freezes, all of their brains running in different directions. Gilbert, a recognized power, gets a look from Francis—and curse those uncertain eyes. _What do I do?_

_Let him leave._ Gilbert stares back, his heart drumming against the tide, and tries to bore the message into Francis's head. _Let him leave. Let him leave. Let him leave._

But Antonio's head—and they should have seen this coming, they knew this was going to happen, they should have called a doctor—has gone a little off. His brain tells him to wrench the man by the shoulder and place the gun to his temple. His brain tells him this man in is a threat, and he's got to investigate and eliminate it.

Gilbert wants to say something but he can't. Anything he can think of would incriminate one or all of them. So he closes his eyes—prays for the clocks to stop—and prays for Matthew to leave.

_Please, Matthew. Won't you leave?_

_—_

Gilbert's got the money in the bag, got the hostages on the floor. Everything, looking inside from out, seems to be going perfectly according to plan. But he can't shake this feeling that it isn't right, they can't just leave it like this. Something's got to happen, something's got to end it, end it once and for all.

Through the mask, Gilbert feels the pain of Matthew's gaze. He's not sure if he's recognized, he hopes he's not recognized, but there are too many facts to consider. Matthew's own car is sitting outside, doors ajar, waiting for them; it'd been forced into being a getaway car when Francis's van had blown a tire. That had been fate, hadn't it? Warning them that if they went through, there'd be unforeseen circumstances?

Gilbert wonders why. If Matthew had in fact, seen his car out in front, why would he go in?

Oh, that's silly to ask. Why _wouldn't_ he go in? It is human condition to conquer fears, to vanquish doubts.

It is, overall, just too good to resist.

There's a simmering silence, as they've all got their bags, they've all got their guns, and they've all got their lives; this moment is so perfect it feels too much like a prison, an invisible shell. Gilbert's quick legs turn thick like lava, melting him into the floor. He can't move. They can't run for it when their head of their escape is frozen and quivering. He stares at Matthew, and feels all the crashes of fate and coincidence collide in his head: cold like silver and as loud as cymbals.

Antonio catches Gilbert's stare and he gets nervous; something, something he's not sure about, has happened, and it doesn't feel quite right. His hostage is questionably stagnant: he doesn't squirm like the others, he doesn't talk, he doesn't cry, he doesn't beg for his life. Antonio looks at him, really looks at him, and ends up staring straight through to the heart of it all. He meets Matthew's eyes and it's all clear to him, it's confirmed. He doesn't speak until Matthew looks away, and maybe speaking is the worst thing he can do.

"Hey… I think I know you…" Antonio murmurs. Maybe it's to Matthew, maybe it's to Gilbert; maybe the whole world is on its toes, listening and waiting for the end of this conflict. Matthew's gasp is the only reply, and it resonances throughout the room, then everything turns, like clockwork, to chaos.

Antonio experiences a sharp fit of terror, and releases Matthew like a poison. He throws him against the wall, moving backward and readying his gun. He mumbles to himself, shuddering, and Matthew gets his footing.

Antonio's huffing and absolutely out of his element, his arms are shaking and his legs nervously move about.

This is it: the crossroads. The decision has to be made here, now, or there's no chance of anything ever being the same.

Though Francis tries to prevent it, try to whisper to Gilbert to leave it alone, Gilbert rushes forward and takes Antonio's shoulder. "No, stop it, stop it, what're you doing?"

Matthew's heard that voice so many times, and for so long. It doesn't bother him for a moment, until all the factors register quickly and the recognition hits him then, hits him hard, like a bullet to the back of the brain; he whispers quietly (and this is his final undoing): "Gil…?"

Pure fear, like lightning, runs through Antonio, leaving him empty and frightened. He seals his grip on the gun and takes aim. He says, "We've got to—we've got to. I told you, they recognize us!"

"Who recognizes us? What're you talking about?" Gilbert is attempting to find a way to take the weapon from Antonio but there aren't any openings for him. (They hadn't even given him a gun; precautions, and all that. He must have found it and taken it for himself.) Gilbert feels like he's been caved in, trapped in the dark and coughing up dust.

Francis has more of an insight. Francis has seen first-hand how fragile Antonio's psyche has been. He figures this is the breaking point, and what a moment it is. He boldly touches Antonio's shoulder, holding him like a vice. His priorities have straightened; he wonders what makes them all so delusional. It's like they're in a shared dream that's shifted into a nightmare. "No, no, Toni, listen. We've got to get out of here. Don't you hear it?" he asks, mimicking Antonio's helpless tone from earlier. _Couldn't you see?_

There are sirens out in the distance, wailing and screaming and smashing their jaws down on their ankles.

"Even if we do leave," Antonio struggles to reason; logic is not something he's thinking about, he's thinking more about the blood rushing through him that's tell him to shoot, to shoot, _to shoot!_ "Even if we do get out of here, he'll tell the police. He knows us."

Francis tries to reassure, "He wouldn't. You don't know him." He's not looking at Matthew; hasn't since he walked in. He's sure one glance would break him, just like one glance into his own eyes is catastrophic and fatal.

"No," Antonio says firmly. The chemicals in his brain have settled, soothing, convinced he'll follow orders. "We've got to."

Gilbert's desperate, Gilbert's guilt is eating him alive. He starts to say mindless things, assert mindless things, but everything that comes out of his mouth falls on deaf ears.

The sirens are closer now. They've waited too long on Antonio's Russian roulette. It doesn't matter now, anyway. Calling card or no calling card, they're as good as done for.

So what if it all came down to happenstance? If it all came down to too much secrecy between them, and not enough sanity among them? What will it matter to them, or anyone, years down the line, sentences under their belts and bags under their eyes? Nothing, absolutely nothing. They will just be a sight and a story for the unlucky patrons trapped in the bank, who watch as Gilbert begs, who watch as Francis sighs, who watch as—

Antonio, summoned by distant whispers, pulls the trigger.

* * *

**A/N**: Inspired by Fall Out Boy's "It's Hard to Say I Do When I Don't." This is not really what I had in mind—it was supposed to be more about Gilbert's reluctance to break free from his wild life, and his dysfunctional relationship with Matthew—but it ended up focusing more on Antonio… In my first idea, Antonio's cold-blooded tendencies were supposed to be spread out amongst the three of them, as in they each have an amoral quality to them, but I don't think that worked out so well. Ah well. This was supposed to be poetic and short & sweet, but obviously it didn't turn out like that, either.

I'm sorry to say I'm kind of falling out of this fandom. I'm going to finish Invisible Roses, and maybe crank out a few more one-shot ideas that have been plaguing me, but that might be it. D;


End file.
